My Sexuality | Masturbation

I’m Just Taking a Shower

What I learned while loving myself

I pulled the shower curtain across the cubicle — feeling pretty snippy. There was no privacy in this house, but I knew what would help me relax.

I lived at home with my parents, a brother, a sister and my grandma on my Dad’s side. We had one family bathroom and a downstairs WC. My bedroom door had no lock, plus my family was the kind to carry on conversations by calling out to someone in another room.

At sixteen years old, my libido had me jumpy as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

The shower was the safest place for me to jill-off. My body felt so much nicer with the warm water heating my — y’know — down below. With a squeeze of shower gel in my palm I’d lather my body all over, before concentrating a lot of attention between my legs.

I’d read a few titillating, spicy books, but in the sexy bits, they made no mention of the kind of sticky slime which my body produced when I began to rub my slit. I concluded it didn’t happen to everyone. Because I worried that it was not nice somehow, touching myself in the shower, all that goo washed away, if I frigged myself to a shuddering climax. My genius solution to an embarrassing problem.

On other nights I might get horny in bed, especially if I was reading a book with saucy bits. I wore only a man’s shirt and panties to sleep — a standard set by every sexy girl in films. Staring into the dark, I would listen to the noise of my family taking turns to use the bathroom, eventually calling out goodnight. I tried keeping my hands outside the covers, willing myself not to touch.

Once silence cloaked the house, my good intentions always faltered.

To assuage the guilt I’d start off only touching myself over my knickers. Moving the cotton fabric would tease my pubic hairs, the friction stirred my sensitive nerve endings into hyper-alert. I discovered a circling motion with fingertips, at the top of my slit, was the most effective technique.

The aroma my body produced when it got excited had me confused and delighted in equal measure. Mostly I considered it “Exhibit A: Evidence of my deviance,” which I hoped nobody would discover. Other times, if I sniffed my wet fingers or my worn knickers, I felt a flutter — just there.

These techniques were enough to satisfy my needs for a couple of years, during this time, it never occurred to me to part my pussy lips. I learned about the clitoris from books before I looked for my own.

I deduced that the slippery stuff I was ashamed of, my own lubrication, played a key role in attaining my orgasm.

Now, many years later, the smell of a certain shower gel can have a Pavlov’s dog effect, and make my pussy tingle. I’ve learned to use the drumming of hot water in the shower, on my nipples to make them pebble or to aim its heat at my labia to increase the speed of my arousal.

I’m still in a busy household, using shower time to secure my private time. Nowadays I bring a waterproof vibrator with me, so I’m assured of a relaxing, happy ending.

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